


Defile the Throne

by sarai377



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, M/M, PWP, Risen King Chrom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-28
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2019-04-13 21:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14121204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarai377/pseuds/sarai377
Summary: Grima conquers the Ylissean throne, in more ways than one.“What do you want to do?” Grima asks, teasing.The fallen prince’s eyes blaze with reddish light. “You know,” he says, and his hand tightens possessively on Grima’s thigh, just above the knee.Oh, he does.(Featuring Risen King Chrom and Grima!Robin)





	Defile the Throne

The Ylissean throne stands in the beam of dim sunlight which enters through the shattered stained-glass windows on the west side. The sun sets bloodred, casting scarlet overtones over the plush blue velvet and etched gold.

Grima steps up toward the throne, along the scuffed red carpet, three steps - _bow_ , he mocks, remembering the countless courtiers his exalt entertained here - and then up onto the little dais.

There was once a smaller throne, for him - but it’s been removed. He doesn’t know where it has gone, and doesn’t much care. This throne will suffice, all that it represents brought to ruin.

Grima sinks into the well-worn seat, runs his hands along the cold metal arms, and then in conscious irreverence, hooks a knee over the armrest. He smiles as he lounges in the chair, pleased. He’s finally conquered the city that gave him so much trouble - driven out those _children_ who dared to think they could stand up against him. He doesn’t know where they have gone, but someone in his control knows, and that is enough. With a word he can learn the exact location, can call the dragon to transport him there, to destroy the rest.

For now, he sits on his claimed throne, looking around the darkened, empty hall, success bright in his chest.

One eye builds up liquid, and he blinks it away, momentarily confused. He sneers and swipes away the tears, realizing that his not-so-gracious _host_ is upset. “Enough of that,” he hisses, and sits up straight, dropping his foot to the ground. He reaches out with his mind, finding each of his animated minions like candleflames in the darkness. Grima reaches past the lesser ones, and finds the strongest one lurking nearby. The crown jewel of his collection. He smiles, and beckons. For a moment, he thinks there is resistance - but then it is gone, like heat escaping from pooled blood.

A few short moments later, a large, strong body shoves the doors inward. Panels of light lance through the empty hall, and the fallen exalt strides through them, light, dark, light, dark. He’s still so _powerful_ , and it catches Grima’s breath. He hadn’t expected this when he turned him, hadn’t expected all this power to remain. It had been, perhaps, a moment of weakness. The pain of his host at seeing the man he loved dead at his feet had still hung close to the surface. Grima had simply pressed and tugged, and the body had Risen to do his bidding, and it had made him _happy_. Well, not happy. The only thing that will truly make Grima happy is total destruction.

Something akin to happiness, anyway.

Grima sinks back into the throne and hooks both legs over the arm, getting as comfortable as he can. The conquest is comfort enough, even as the hard metal edge digs into his spine.

“Attend me,” he orders, and flicks a hand to the carpet before the throne.

The fallen exalt kneels, raising those haunting red eyes to Grima. That look is sometimes off-putting, but right now it begins to satisfy an _itch_. The festering love and simmering hate in those eyes, in the fractured mind, has Grima smiling, baring his sharp teeth.

“Speak,” he orders. “Tell me what bothers you.”

The exalt draws in a ragged breath, as if he hasn’t breathed in a while. His voice rumbles out, gone deeper than before. “This place… the memories… I miss...”

He’s not so good with words, anymore. What little princely eloquence there was is long gone, only raw power and energy remaining. He frowns, and looks down, and Grima reaches out and raises his chin.

“I know,” Grima says, soft and almost gentle. His fingers trail along the exalt’s cold lips, granting wordless permission.

The fallen prince’s eyes darken for a moment, and then he turns his face into Grima’s gloved hand, rubbing his cheek against it. The chill in the exalt’s skin seeps through the leather.

Grima doesn’t touch him often, but that touch soothes both of them, so he allows it. His host body remembers, and Grima understands the thing the prince tried to express. The memories of this place crowd in close. He’ll just have to make new ones, on top of the old ones, like adding ever-darker paint to cover up a mistake.

Grima takes hold of the exalt’s jaw, and draws him closer. The exalt shuffles forward on his knees, pliant, and stays where Grima leaves him. His eyes beg for more.

“You may touch me,” Grima says.

The effect is instantaneous - the exalt brings up both hands and seizes his wrist. On a mortal, the grip would hurt, but Grima is not mortal. Cold breath steams across Grima’s wrist, sending goosebumps up his body. They know each other, inside and out, body and soul. It matters not that the exalt is less than he once was, and Grima more. They _know_ each other, and the itch grows in Grima’s abdomen, sizzling hot up his spine.

The exalt’s mouth pricks at Grima’s skin, teeth dragging inside his wrist. Grima’s pulse beats faster.

“No blood,” he says, watching with heavy-lidded eyes. _Not yet._

Those teeth don’t go away, but the exalt obeys, unquestioningly, turning instead to the leather glove. He gnaws at it, and the fading sunlight brightens his blue hair, the flush of the grave on his pale skin. Grima watches, smiling, as the exalt gets a tooth into the leather above one knuckle and tears it back. How he wants to _hurt_ Grima, his powerful body ready, but he's held back by these invisible ties, the same ones Grima’s host spoke of, years ago. _We’re not pawns of some scripted fate_ , he'd said.

How wrong he was.

Grima grins, tongue darting across his mouth.

More ripping, and the brand on the back of Grima’s hand casts a purple glow into the exalt’s eyes as it is exposed. The exalt growls as he meets Grima's gaze, lips pulled back from his teeth, still clamped on the leather. Grima smiles and leans in, drawing the exalt close, letting the sound resonate between them. Maybe he even growls back. But he doesn’t stop his fallen prince.

The exalt mouths along the exposed skin, eyes closed, losing himself to pleasure. Grima forces his breathing even, watching, a fire stirring inside of him.

He clamps onto the glove once more, working at it now like a dog with a bone, and tugs hard where the leather creases over the first knuckle. The glove rips, and with a twist of careless fingers, comes free. The exalt tosses the leather aside and moves back, but stops short of touching Grima again.

There’s something in his expression now, wary and eager.

“Speak,” Grima says.

“I want…” he says, struggling for words. “Want... you.” He’s breathing hard when he finishes, and closes his glowing eyes, as if already flinching from Grima’s response.

However, Grima finds that their desires are aligned. His body itches and burns with sweet discomfort. He turns on the throne, and sets both feet to the floor.

“Come here,” he says, and pats one knee.

The exalt pauses for just one instant - he's surprised, Grima notes with amusement - and then obeys. He moves between Grima's legs, then shifts to rest his head on Grima's knee, hopeful in spite of himself. Grima could quash those hopes, put darkness back in those eyes. He tugs the spindled crown from the exalt’s head, tossing it to the side to join his ruined glove. It rattles and clangs before falling silent, leaving only echoes.

Grima brushes the exalt’s cheek with a tenderness that surprises both of them. The exalt stills, and then sighs, and some tension leaves his body.

It must be the nostalgia of this throne, Grima decides, and then decides he needs to replace these foreign intimacies with something else, something essentially Grima. His host, that piece that lingers on, perhaps because some form of his lover still lives on, grows more and more agitated, crashing against the cage deep inside. He doesn't like when Grima toys with the exalt.

Too bad.

Grima runs bare fingers along the scalloped, lacy edge of his top, smiling at the exalt’s hungry expression. Grima’s blood stirs beneath his skin, fire dancing through his bones. He shows off his body, tempting his fallen prince with it. Grima would have preferred a stronger form, or at least, someone taller, but he made do, adding as much muscle to this naturally slender body as he could, until he was satisfied.

When he dips a finger beneath the fabric, the exalt makes a noise. One of his hands wraps around Grima’s leg, edging around his knee. The touch is unbidden, and Grima could punish him for it - but he doesn’t. There’s something to the thought of this powerful prince on his knees, desiring him, that feels good.

“What do you want to do?” Grima asks, teasing.

The fallen prince’s eyes blaze with reddish light. “You know,” he says, and his hand tightens possessively on Grima’s thigh, just above the knee.

Oh, he does.

Grima smiles, and rubs his bare hand against his own face, ignoring the grunt the exalt makes. He dips a finger into his mouth, sharp canine clicking against the nail. The exalt’s eyes are trained on the movement like a hound on the trail, a hand on each of Grima’s knees now.

The fallen prince whimpers when Grima touches his hair with his still-covered left hand. Grima runs one finger down his jaw, and quick as a snake the exalt grabs the leather in his teeth and yanks it off. Maybe Grima is glad to be rid of it, too.

The exalt kneels up, off his heels, hands moving up Grima’s thighs, and Grima arches his back, allowing the exalt to bury his face in Grima’s low-necked shirt.

They are in sync, aligned in death and ruin, each anticipating the other’s moves.

The exalt isn’t gentle, going for the lace and ripping the shirt down the middle, feral with desire, and that’s what Grima wants. He obeys Grima’s command from earlier - no blood - _not yet_ \- but his hands are hard on Grima’s legs. If Grima were mortal, there would be bruises.

Grima laughs, a low rumbling sound. It is only clothing, wrappings for this imperfect vessel, and not the first time his outfit has been ruined. He hooks his feet behind the exalt and draws him closer. Those hands grip Grima’s thighs like immovable steel chains, holding him still as the exalt peels the shirt open.

The exalt pauses when Grima is bare from neck to navel, breathing hard, breath finally starting to warm. His body is still cold, but Grima is burning with heat. It’s almost uncomfortable, the disparity between them.

Grima raises his wrist to his own fangs, and tastes copper as he brings a bit of blood to the surface. It wells up and trails down his forearm, disappearing beneath the wide cuff.

The exalt stops breathing, and stares unblinking at the blood. He’s upset, and excited - seeing blood on this body still does that to him. Grima’s lost count of the many times his prince blocked a blow meant for him, determined to protect him. Old instincts die hard. Grima grins, knowing exactly how he looks, bloody and yet undiminished. He smears the blood down his own neck, flexing his hands, eyes glowing with defiance and need, and then paints it across his mouth.

With a hungry noise, the exalt is on him, kissing him, teeth nipping at his lips. If the prince bites a little too hard and draws more blood, Grima doesn’t mind. Grima worms his hands into his blue hair and kisses him back, willing his blood to warm the body between his thighs.

_Much better_ , he thinks.

Chrom moves to his neck, kissing and growling and licking, his touch a banked fire against the chill of night.

Grima suddenly _remembers_. Remembers doing a similar thing on this very throne, giddy with the fear of being caught. Chrom’s blue eyes, the flush of pink on his cheeks - a hand at the small of Grima’s back, drawing him into that unselfconscious smile... the vivid, intimate details hit Grima hard and unexpectedly, and he grips the exalt’s jaw, pulling him away. Chrom’s eyes slit open, angry, and his mouth is stained crimson.

Grima draws breath to send Chrom away.

The prince’s hands loosen on his legs and move inward, pressing together. Grima arches his back as those strong hands, that could so easily kill him, touch his most sensitive parts. He’s well and truly roused now, his erection taut within his pants, and that touch, careful and hard all at once, catches his breath.

Chrom always knew _exactly_ how to please this form.

Grima lets go, hand moving for more skin, and Chrom’s mouth is back on his. They growl at each other through the rough, satisfying kiss. One hand remains on Grima's groin, and the other moves to the belts, undoing them. They fall to the throne with an unnoticed clink. Chrom hasn't lost any dexterity, and this pleases Grima.

Grima catches the exalt’s lower lip in his teeth, canines digging in. His fallen prince doesn't cry out, but Grima wants to hear it. He claws at the bit of skin between collar and collarbone, drawing more blood to Chrom’s pale skin, but no sounds. He does still feel his own body - Grima made certain of that. No second-rate Risen, but something much more, made with Grima's blood and sweat and tears. Perfect, nearly.

A sharp sting of something like pride, and Grima sighs. His body relaxes, scooting down the chair to get more of those willing hands, as if Chrom has passed the test. This is what he wants - so what if their desires coincide? Nobody will know except the two of them.

The fallen prince sighs happily as he touches Grima, hand cupping his erection, feeling along the length. Grima's head falls back against the plush chair. It feels good, so he lets it happen, a hand resting lightly on his prince’s hair, keeping him close. Chrom nibbles at Grima’s neck, hands working at the buttons of his pants.

There’s a tightness at his waist, and then a great _rip_ , and the pressure releases. Grima glances down to see that the exalt has grown impatient with the buttons, and just torn them loose.

“Must you ruin all of my clothes?” Grima mocks, and the exalt growls in response, not looking up from where he is tugging on Grima's smallclothes. Grima raises his hips to help, and with a sigh, the exalt frees his erection from the fabric.

Chrom wraps a hand around it, bows his head and takes it into his mouth. No hesitation. Grima is starting to wonder who is in control, exactly, but the way his tongue dances around the head, he doesn't much care.

“Mmm-yes,” he groans, fingers clenched in strands of blue hair, shifting his hips up to meet that eager mouth. He'd forgotten how _good_ this weak form could feel, how much sensation this body could provide. His body loves the broken man before him, and a part of Grima does, too.

Maybe more than one part.

His groan seems to rile the exalt up, for he gets into it, throat working, making soft sounds that shiver up Grima's spine.

Grima grabs his hair hard and pulls him down, warmth wrapped around his dick, and then pulls free. The exalt’s mouth hangs open, eyes staring up at Grima with a delicious blend of adoration and hatred. Just what Grima likes.

Chrom always knew how to satisfy him.

Grima pushes him back with a careless foot on his hip, just beside his groin. “Strip,” he says, and leans on his elbow, looking for a show. His cock stands at attention, throbbing for release, but Grima waits.

Chrom growls, eyes flashing, and his hands go down. He doesn't rip his clothes - he can't, too much metal. Instead he unbuckles the armor, dropping the heavy metal cuisses and gauntlets and pauldrons to the floor. Every move is efficient and purposeful, now, as if he senses what is within his grasp. He removes all his armor, then the underlayer, exposing his tender flesh to Grima's greedy eyes. He’s erect, achingly hard already, and probably has been from the moment Grima touched him.

He returns, kneeling before the throne, naked and vulnerable. He seems smaller than before, but no less dangerous.

Grima slides a hand over his own cock, keeping it hard and ready, a smile curling the corners of his mouth. This has always been a sight that pleases him, and today is no exception. Chrom is magnificent. His numerous scars stand darker than the rest of his skin, the largest one, a hand-shaped lightning scar, puckering and fierce, in the center of his chest. His hands cling to the arms of the chair.  

“Please,” he breathes, his whole face eager and angry. He's been denied before, and he knows Grima’s moods are mercurial. Grima doesn't have to let him touch again.

Grima leans forward and presses his hand to the lightning scar. “Yes,” he says.

Chrom climbs right onto the throne, straddling Grima's legs. He always rushes, taking what he can get, unless Grima slows him. _Pitiful_ , Grima thinks, grinning.

Chrom kisses him, and his hand goes to Grima's cock once more. It's warm and delicately soft around his erection without the gloves. Grima closes his eyes and leans into the copper-tasting kiss.

“Want… you, please,” Chrom groans, trembling above Grima. His hand moves to wrap around Grima’s delicate throat, snugged up beneath his jawbone. Chrom’s eyes are dark slits, all his thoughts laid bare. Desire… hatred… a possessive edge in the way his hands tighten, one on Grima's throat and the other on his cock.

Grima touches the fallen exalt’s back, then his hips, dragging out permission, even though he knows he will give it.

“Need you,” the exalt says, and his hands tighten.

“Yes,” Grima breathes, a wisp of a sound through the squeeze at his throat.

Chrom sighs, and releases him. Then, with more of that eager energy, he shifts so his chest is almost pressed to Grima’s cheek - and lines up Grima’s cock with his asshole.

It must hurt, but Grima doesn’t much care. Grima gasps, throwing his head back as Chrom inches his way down, taking him in, his body at once accepting and rejecting Grima.

Their bodies fit together, perfectly, as they used to. Grima digs his fingernails into Chrom’s ass, leaving half-moon indents that fill with blood. The exalt nestles his face into Grima’s neck, hot - too hot - breath searing flesh and bone.

When Chrom is ready, he starts to move. Grima flexes his hips upward, meeting that downward stroke, grinding against him at the deepest point. They fight for control, Grima holding him back, Chrom pushing forward with everything he’s got, everything Grima gives him.

Eventually, Grima’s hands lessen their tension, and Chrom takes what is granted him. He takes hold of the decorative spindles at the top of the chair, using them for leverage. He’s beautiful like this, needy and wanton, all those beautiful muscles corded under taut, warm skin. He overwhelms Grima, and Grima lets him. Grima bites whatever piece of flesh Chrom puts near his mouth, marking him, claiming him again and again as Chrom’s silky heat takes him in, sheathing to the hilt. Chrom’s erection presses into Grima’s stomach, but Grima doesn’t touch it yet.

They are both loud, groaning and growling and gasping, and Grima feels those invisible ties, knotted and twisted, wrapped into every joined motion.

It is all good until Chrom speaks that name.

“R-robin!” he gasps.

Grima scowls, his body flushing cold at this, and one of his eyes tears up again. It takes him out of it, pushing back the waves of pleasure.

“How _dare_ you!” Grima grabs one of the exalt’s hips, holding him down, stopping the movement. His fingers dig into the flesh, spread and forceful. “Who am I?”

“Robin,” the exalt says, eyes flashing, muscles tensed. He tries to continue the movement, but can’t. “Rrrr - Robin!”

“Wrong,” Grima growls, and grabs the exalt’s chin, pulling him down to look directly into his eye. “Who am I?”

Chrom fights it, fights him, but Grima is stronger. When the exalt takes hold of Grima's throat, it is because Grima lets him. He grips tight, Grima still buried deep inside of him, Chrom’s erection pressing unattended against Grima's stomach.

_Who am I?_ Grima demands, voiceless, eyes locked on Chrom’s, red to red.

Chrom snarls, and tightens both his hand and his ass, the space between his eyebrows curled tight. They’re both coiled so tight, spiralling together - and when one of them snaps, it’s not Grima. _Who am I?_

“My god,” Chrom says, still furious even as he gives in, gives it all. “My god.”

Grima loves that fury, that potency, and he lets Chrom keep it.

“My… _mine_ …” Chrom’s hand loosens from Grima's neck, of his own volition. His shoulders slump, and he looks away from the dark marks he left on Grima's skin.

“Touch me,” Grima commands, and Chrom leans forward to press delicate kisses to those marks. The light touch tingles. Grima could heal the marks with a thought, use some of this energy that is bouncing around inside, waiting for release, but he doesn't. He leaves them for Chrom, who licks a long wet line up his neck. This powerful form curls around him, thighs trembling, hand soft and delicate on the back of his neck, holding Grima in place as he licks at the bruises.

Grima digs nails into the firm muscles of Chrom’s lower back, and pulls up. The exalt complies, keeping his mouth on Grima. It’s not frantic, anymore. He takes his time, letting Grima savor every inch as he slides inside again.

“ ’M sorry,” Chrom whispers, breath hot under his chin. “Sorry…”

“I know you are,” Grima says, and rubs his hand against Chrom’s cheek. Chrom melts into it, eyes closing, all tension leaving his face. “It’s in your nature.” Grima forgives him, although he doesn’t put that into words. He is, after all this, still _Chrom_ \- and the man who used to control this body loves him. Grima loves him, in all the ways that he can.

Grima leans forward, hand on Chrom’s ass, pulling him in. They kiss, the lingering taste of blood between their lips, bodies pressed together, as close at they can get without peeling away skin and flesh. When he looks up, Chrom’s eyes are heavy-lidded, desire pooled within ruddy scarlet.

Chrom looks at Grima, and his hand moves soft across Grima’s throat, up his chin, trailing a thumb across Grima’s mouth - Grima nips at it, getting a shudder in return. Chrom’s hand works into Grima’s hair, fingers soft in the strands across his forehead. He holds Grima carefully now, as if afraid he will break.

Such _tenderness_.

Grima closes his eyes, not wanting to see this. It cuts him to the quick, makes him snarl in warning.

When Chrom starts moving again, it is gentle and _loving_. Grima trembles, wanting and not wanting, furious and aching, melting under. He touches Chrom’s shoulderblades, trailing up his spine, one vertebrae at a time. Too soft, but he can’t bring himself to be rough, right now. Chrom arches into it, impaling himself slowly on Grima’s cock, hands still gentle in his hair.

Grima groans, his body reacting, that ball of energy growing tighter and tighter in his stomach. He needs Chrom to move faster, but the words won’t come.

Chrom’s mouth goes to his cheek, kissing a wavering line to the corner of his mouth. Grima surrenders to it, turns into the kiss, tension ratcheting up up _up_ \--

Light bursts behind his eyelids, all that energy pouring out of him. He whimpers into Chrom’s mouth, sensation sending him away for a few precious moments. Chrom’s hands hold him close as he goes rigid and boneless at the same time. Chrom rides him through it, slow and unrelenting, and Grima, half-aware, reaches down and takes hold of Chrom’s erection. It doesn’t take much before Chrom is spilling onto Grima’s stomach, groaning into his hair, hands holding Grima close.

_Mine_ , one of them thinks, and it doesn’t matter which one.

 ~*~

After their breathing slows, the fallen prince rises off of Grima and sinks to his knees before the throne. His forehead is warm and sweaty against Grima's knee. A soft red light dances behind lowered eyelids, dying satisfied embers as he peers up at him.

“Thank you,” the exalt breathes, supplication and worship.

Grima pets his blue hair until those eyes close. His languid body lounges on the throne, not ready to move. He smiles, head tilted back on the throne, satisfied with this conquest. If a tear trails down Grima’s cheek, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

It is enough, to have his exalt with him, until the bitter, cold end, the destruction of everything.

It is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it. I was expecting something a lot more violent, but Grima ran away with it and forced all these emotions. 
> 
> Big thanks to Zet for listening to me bouncing ideas about this fic, and Xin for getting excited over this with me! (Also everyone posting Grima/Chrom images on Twitter because I live for this dynamic and I love seeing everyone's interpretations!) 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and please let me know what you thought!


End file.
